


Taraxacum

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-06
Updated: 2019-10-06
Packaged: 2020-11-26 08:57:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20927570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Sam fights weeds.





	Taraxacum

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Lord of the Rings or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

It’s a beautiful summer day, with the sun high and the children out and playing, laughter and playful shouting flittering in over the wind. The breeze is just cool enough to combat the heat, so Sam can wear his favourite vest over his best Sunday clothes. Even though he has the morning off, he finds himself up at Bag End, and only partially because he enjoys being there so much.

Part of it is that he can no longer afford to take the weekends off, not with how bad the garden’s getting. He does his best to keep up with it, to prune and trim and feed all the ever-growing flowers, and that’s all in top shape, but the weeds have somehow gotten away from him. Sam doesn’t understand how that’s happened, because he’s so very diligent about it all. He’s there every morning, precisely on time, and goes about the lush hilltop plucking up every wrong thing he sees. By now, the infestation should’ve died down. 

But it hasn’t; it’s only gotten worse—the bright yellow scoundrels are creeping ever closer to the house. Sam follows them, meticulously uprooting every troublesome dandelion that he comes across.

Around the long path, he hears whistling, and Sam’s heart clenches on pure instinct. Even without words, Frodo’s singing voice is wonderful, and Sam would know it anywhere. He pretends to keep working, but really, his attention turns down the road. He’s watching as Frodo rounds the bend, cheerily humming a foreign tune. A few more steps and he pauses, ducking down to pluck a white puff off the field. 

He lifts it to his lips and blows it, scattering the drifting seeds in every direction. Sam watches, captivated, as the tiny tufts of horticultural nightmares waft towards the perfectly manicured grass outside of Bag End. 

Frodo laughs. The noise is every bit as lovely as his humming, and his expression makes it all the better—his eyes crinkle with his smile and his lips stretch wide. His dark hair ruffles in the breeze, shimmering curls slipping across his pale forehead. His cheeks are flushed with mirth, and the sun silhouettes him perfectly: he looks like an angel out of song. 

When there’s nothing left of the dandelion’s green stem, Frodo tosses it aimlessly aside. He continues up the path, reaches Sam, and stops by to pat him on the shoulder. Sam glows from the contact. Frodo greets, “Good morning, Sam. Aren’t you off today?”

“Just doing what I can, Mr. Frodo,” Sam answers, still mesmerized. There’s not a hobbit alive as beautiful as Frodo. 

“Well, that’s good of you. Anything I can do to help?”

A small part of Sam says to answer: _don’t blow those weeds, Mr. Frodo_, because that’s how they spread, and each one of those tiny seeds will be a new headache for Sam when they’ve grown up into insidious dandelions. But looking at Frodo’s gorgeous smile, Sam doesn’t have the heart to tell him anything bad. 

So Sam lies, “No, thank you, Sir. But it’s awfully kind of you to ask.”

Frodo nods. “Alright, but do let me know if you should like any tea, at least; I think I’ll be having some now.” He gives Sam another friendly pat and heads for the big green door.

Only when Frodo disappears from view does Sam lament his choices. He toils a little longer with the weeds, then goes to have some tea.


End file.
